


Ghosts in the Daylight

by owlish_peacock



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Ghost Claire, Mysterious, Non-Graphic Violence, Writer Jamie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-03-29 19:06:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13933371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlish_peacock/pseuds/owlish_peacock
Summary: "It's easier to dismiss ghosts in the daylight..." All Jamie wanted was quiet loneliness to work on his novel. But, are we ever truly alone? Ghost AU





	1. Chapter 1

Jamie was glad to be out of the Lallybroch estate. He loved his family dearly, but his sister’s brood left much to be desired in the ‘quiet department.’ He found it much harder to write with a baby in his lap, or a toddler at his feet. And he needed to write as much as possible these days.

He had authored a few books in the past ten years, ranging from mystery to thriller to comedy. Although never placed on a best seller list, they had garnered enough attention to adequately supply his income. Such as it was, that income left no room for a house of his own until recently.

His sister Jenny didn’t mind helping him in the beginning. It was his dream to be an author. Who was she to stand in the way of her baby brother’s dream? She sheltered him, fed him when he needed. But as time wore on, her own little family grew. First, it was just three adults in the large estate: Jamie, Jenny, and her husband Ian. Quickly, though, she bore children, one right after the other it seemed. Three babies under 5 (“And one on the way!” She announced the previous evening).

And Jamie’s large figure just took up too much room.

Of course, Jenny would never say that. She would never kick him out of the house. But he saw the relief in her shoulders when he told her he had bought a house.

It was the first time he had been alone in a long time.

***

The house was modest, located at the dead end of a sparse neighborhood. Dark brick, two bedroom, two bath. One story. Small, but Jamie didn’t much. It was just him, anyway.

His whole life was packed in–surprisingly few–boxes, stacked in all the crevices of the house. Cloudiness crept over his mind; moving was exhausting. Pulling off his clothes, he slumped into bed–a mattress on the floor–and fell quickly asleep.

***

Sleep didn’t last long for Jamie, however, for a noise woke him in the dark. He groped for his phone, curious as to the time. 3:24 am. The noise continued…

_Bang…_

_Bang…_

_Bang…_

Like knuckles on hollow wood. Jamie jumped out of bed, cursing the idiot knocking at his door at 3 in the morning. But, as he entered the small foyer, he saw out the windows that there was no one there.

_Bang…_

_Bang…_

_Bang…_

The noise seemed to come from behind him, then. He turned quickly, faced with nothing but moonlit darkness. Was someone in his house?

Carefully, quietly, he snuck into his kitchen, grabbing a carving knife out of one of the boxes. Surely, no one would be so dumb as to…

A creak came from his right, as if someone stepped on a loose floorboard. Still, there was nothing. No breathing, no shadow. Nothing.

It was silly of him, he knew, but he was frightened. Abandoning all hopes of subtlety, he flipped the light switch. He flipped all of the light switches, checking every room with the knife still in hand.

But, again, he found himself face-to-face with complete… nothingness. He was still totally alone.


	2. Chapter 2

“So… how was yer first night in yer new home?” Ian asked him over his beer. He invited Jamie to a late lunch… probably because he missed him so much already, Jamie had teased.

“Fine.” He didn’t feel the need to tell Ian about the sleepless night he endured. In the safety of the daytime, it was easy to write off the noises that kept him awake. It was an older house; older houses tended to creak. Even Lallybroch groaned in its old age.

“Must be awfully quiet, aye? No bairns running around, screaming ‘UNCA! UNCA!’” Ian’s imitation of his children’s pronunciation of ‘uncle’ was a bit uncanny.

“Aye. I dinna miss waking up at 6 with a small human on top of me.”

“I envy ye that, to be sure.” The two men clinked glasses in a small toast.

“Ian…” Jamie spoke with trepidation. “Do… ye believe in ghosts?”

Ian gave him a worried look. With his mouth full of pasta, though, it was more comical than anything. “What? Do ye think yer house is haunted?”

“No!” Jamie protested. He wracked his brain, thinking of a good explanation for his question. He shouldn’t have said anything, but he couldn’t take it back now. “No… its just… its for a story I’m thinking about writing, ken?”

Ian looked at him sideways, but eventually decided that Jamie’s explanation was acceptable. “Well, we’re Scottish, aye? We’re full of stories and tales and oddities. Our national animal is a unicorn, for Christ’s sake. If there were ghosts in Scotland… Let’s just say, it wouldna be the strangest thing.”

***

The one thing reviled by all writers was writer’s block, and unfortunately, Jamie was experiencing it. Lounging on the sofa in the sitting room with the laptop perched upon his knees, he stared relentlessly at the blank walls, hoping to uncover some secrets from the void.

The walls groaned, pulling Jamie out of his stupor. It was a rainy night, and the stormy winds were constantly barraging the brick walls.

At least, that’s what Jamie told himself. Truthfully, the rain was a soft mist, and the wind was no more than an autumn breeze. No, the creaking came from something else entirely.

“Quit creepin’ about, and show yerself,” Jamie murmured sarcastically to the possible spirits roaming his house.

But, said spirits didn’t understand sarcasm, and when Jamie blinked his eyes, a figure appeared before him. He jumped to his feet, laptop forgotten and crashing on the floor.

The figure was unperturbed by the commotion, staying completely still. It’s features were unfocused and gray, like figures on a broken television.

“H– hello?” Jamie felt completely stupid talking to this form that may or may not be real.

“Hello.” Its voice echoed throughout the sitting room, soft and decidedly female.

“Are you… are ye going to hurt me?”

She chuckled. Not a menacing chuckle, but a chuckle of mere mirth. “No, Jamie. I am not.”

“How do ye ken… it doesna matter.”

Jamie stepped forward, arm outstretched. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, acting on pure curiosity. Would she feel like the mist it seemed she was made of? Or would she feel solid, like a human?

He didn’t get the chance to find out, though, for she dissipated before he could reach her. He stood dumbstruck, arm still out, staring at the now blank wall.

Either Jamie had witnessed a supernatural being, or he was going completely mad.

He placed his bets on the latter.


	3. Chapter 3

Jamie’s feet stomped the wet pavement with loud slaps that rang out in the empty street. His vision tunneled, his focus on the shimmering puddles in front him. All of his senses shrank, adrenaline and instinct overtaking them.

He wished he could shrink his thoughts as well.

They screamed at him, repeating the same mantra over and over.

_You’re crazy. You’re mad. You’re hallucinating. Not real. Not real. Not real._

_SHE WASN’T REAL._

But, it felt real. He still felt the chill in the air when she disappeared, the goosebumps that raised his flesh. Wanting to rid himself of the feeling, he left the house, jogging to clear his mind. But, here he was, running through the dark neighborhood, and still, he shivered with thoughts of her.

And as his thought raced, so did his legs. The ache of exertion pulsed through them, slowing his pace. But, at least, the pain was something else to occupy his mind.

***

Jamie neared a dead-end road, and slowed to a walk. He should turn around; there was no telling what time it was. But, the thought of being back in that house… Well, it wasn’t a pleasant thought, to be sure.

He rested his elbows on a gate, stopping to catch his breath. He squinted out at the expanse of land in front of him. Dark shapes rose from the ground, the shadows of life.

A cemetery.

Was everyone’s life this strange, or just his?

“I’m buried here, you know.” Jamie started at the voice, a familiar whisper that caressed his ear. “My bones are scattered in this earth.”

He turned to face the gray fog he recognized as his own personal haunter.

“Jesus… what are ye doing?”

Ignoring him, she continued. “Go in.”

“Excuse me?”

Though he couldn’t see her face, Jamie could hear the eye roll in her voice. “Go. In.”

“Yer joking! The gate is locked!”

“The gate is waist high, and you’re tall as a spruce. Climb over it.”

“That’s breaking and entering.”

“Pshh. The dead don’t care.”

“I do! I’m no about to go to jail for trespassing!”

“You won’t. Just for a moment, please? I’d like to show you something,” she pleaded, her voice impossibly sweet in that moment.

Jamie’s body began to move without his consent, a compulsion driving him forward that he could not fight. “Fine. Yer a bit like a devil on my shoulder, ye ken? Mainly because ye arena real.”

“Believe what you will,” she spoke from behind him, a smile in her voice. But when he turned to respond, she was gone.

Did he finally get rid of her? Could he go home now? No, he still felt compelled to continue. Something otherworldly was pushing him forward.

As he hopped off the gate, she materialized in front of him, impatience somehow noticeable in her misty grayness.

“Come on. Follow me.”

“Are ye taking me somewhere to kill me? Because, I have family, ken. They’ll look for me. They’ll–”

“Jesus, you talk an awful lot. Besides I told you before: I don’t wish to harm you, Jamie.”

“Then, where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

“Sounds like something a killer would say,” Jamie mumbled under his breath. Or, so he thought. She scoffed at the notion, but said no more.

And neither did Jamie.

He followed her through the cemetery, the wet grass crunching beneath his feet. In the dying light, the headstones seemed to dance, as if the spirits beneath possessed them. Fingers crawled up Jamie’s spine, causing him to tremble with fright. What the hell was he doing here?

He couldn’t stop himself though, couldn’t turn back. His body would not allow him. So, he trudged behind this spectral being, guiding him through a valley of death.

“Here.” She motioned toward a small headstone nestled in the tall grass.

Jamie knelt beside it, wanting a closer look. It was a dark and weathered stone, obviously incredibly old. He pulled out his phone, shining the light upon it.

“‘Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Randall. Born 1873. Died 1897.’ Is this you?”

When she didn’t answer, he looked up. But, she had changed. She was no longer a misty fog; her features had sharpened. Her hair was dark, a halo of curls around an objectively pretty face: wide intelligent eyes and a mischievous mouth. Even her body came into focus; a pale blue Victorian gown swished around her feet… Feet that didn’t quite touch the ground.

“I…” But, Janie didn’t have words. He didn’t know what just happened.

“When we’re forgotten, we become less,” she explained. Even her voice was clearer. “You’ve remembered me, so I’m more now.”

“I dinna understand.”

“I didn’t want to be less anymore. Perhaps that’s selfish of me. I used you, and I apologize.”

“It’s okay,” Jamie said, dazed.

“Well, thank you. But, it’s true.”

“Dinna fash. Happy to help.”

“I was being honest, you know. I don’t want any harm to come to you. Especially by my hand. And I don’t wish to bother you anymore. But… I can’t just go away. You live in my house, you know. It’s where I'm… trapped, I suppose. I can’t live anywhere else. I’m only here in this cemetery, because it’s where my body is…”

“Why are ye telling me all of this?”

“I… I don’t know.” She knelt beside him, eyes boring into his. They were the color of honey, he noticed. “I suppose you were the first person that ever listened.”


	4. Chapter 4

Jamie trudged through the soggy streets, shivering and alone. His friendly ghost– _Claire,_ he reminded himself. _Her name is Claire_ – could not follow him home. Caged within the confines of her– and his– home, she could only exit to visit her body… Which is what she had done that night, showing Jamie the remnants of a life that could have been. 1873-1897. Twenty-four years old. A child, younger than he was now.

She had left him on the outskirts of the cemetery, bidding him farewell and safe journeys home before disappearing before his eyes.That seemed to be her forte, and he wondered if he should grow acclimated to such mystical actions. Perhaps that wouldn’t be the worst thing.

Skipping up to his door, he stopped just short of opening it. Would she be there, waiting for him? He half hoped, half dreaded.

The door creaked in protest, surely frightening off any spirits that may be hiding in the corners. But there she stood, gazing out of the back window, fingers twitching rhythmically at her sides. A humming slowly rose from her chest, singing a low haunting melody he had never heard before. He didn’t wish to disturb her, didn’t want to interrupt the harmonies that sprang from her. So he stood behind her, and listened.

The song rose and fell, pitches came and went; but one thing remained the same: the bone-deep sadness that inflated every note. And when it finally ended, the last note hung in the air, vibrating like a church bell.

Jamie was the first to speak. “What was that? That song ye were singing?”

“I don’t know. I made it up. A long time ago.” Jamie sensed she had more to say, and waited for her to continue. “I used to play the piano when I… was alive.”

“Were ye any good?”

She grinned at his poor attempt at teasing. “Yes. My hands were always so… reliable.” Said hands rose, outlined by the glowing moonlight. “Never faltering. Steady.”

“Like a surgeon of music. Cutting it open, rearranging it. Making it better.”

Her hair whipped about her face as she threw a smirk over her shoulder. “How poetic of you.”

“Well, I am a writer, ken?”

“I know. I saw you. Writing on your little…” Her hands stretched in front of her, miming. “Typewriter.”

“Laptop.”

“Oh.” She turned away from him, again, her gaze unwavering out the window. “I used to have a garden out there. Tended to it like it was my child. I had no children, you see.”

Jamie didn’t wish to interrupt such a wistful monologue, but he felt the need to make his sympathy known. “I’m verra sorry, Claire.”

“Don’t be. It wasn’t meant to be, I suppose. My husband blamed me, of course. And perhaps it was my fault–”

“Dinna say that.”

A sad smile crossed her face, transforming it into a mask of sorrow and longing. “Why not? I know more, now. Know that sometimes bodies don’t work the way they should. But that’s no matter. My garden gave me something to take care of. To nurture. It was my safe place.”

She paused, and began drifting down the hallway toward the sitting room. Jamie followed. She couldn’t leave her story there; he wanted to hear more.

Claire lowered herself onto the sofa, its cushions undisturbed by her body. Jamie sat next to her, wanting to be close… needing to be close.

He was the first to speak. “Will ye tell me more about yer life?”

Her shoulders quivered in a shrug. “There’s not much I remember, honestly. My memories… they’ve faded. Just bits and pieces: The smell of my father’s study, like must and old books. My mother brushing my hair. The snow on my wedding day. Fragments of my life that I can’t completely put together.”

“How did ye die?” Jamie realized his faux pas, but the word were already out of his mouth. “I’m so sorry…”

Claire scoffed. “Perhaps I should be offended, but I’m not. You see, that’s another thing I cannot remember. I don’t know how I died.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just… yer so young–”

She placed a hand on his shoulder. He felt it, but just barely; like a light breeze fluttering his shirt. “It’s all right.”

“I’m no verra familiar with ghost etiquette.”

A laugh burst through her chest, crinkling her entire face, marking her with joy. “Well,” she gasped. “I suppose you’ll learn. After all, you’re stuck with me.”

That thought didn’t plague him with the dread or despair it might’ve at one time. Instead, he felt a warmth in his chest at the prospect of sharing his days with this lovely, spectral being.

_Claire. Her name is Claire._


	5. Chapter 5

They grew used to each other, Claire and Jamie. He found her unseen noises and creaks a sort of lullaby that would soothe him. She liked the constant rhythmic clicking of his typewriter—laptop—and was glad of the noise after being alone for so long. They were companions, friends even, despite the obvious differences. They would sit quietly for hours on end, Jamie working studiously on his writing while Claire wondered at the television.

“So, those are real people?” She had asked him that question about ten times, but Jamie never tired of answering her. She was childlike and innocent when it came to technology, and he found it endearing.

“Aye.”

“But… they’re not in the box?”

Jamie stifled a laugh. “No, remember what I told ye?”

“Yes, yes. The ca-mer-a. It’s just… it makes no sense, Jamie.”

“To make it all make sense to ye, I’d have to teach ye a hundred years worth of technological advances. And I’m no qualified for that, so ye’ll just have to trust me.”

She had inched closer to the television, and her face was mere centimeters from the moving pictures. Jamie was tempted to scold her for sitting so close, but he figured it was moot; she wasn’t going to hurt her eyes.

“I do trust you. It’s my eyes I don’t trust.”

“Well, yer eyes are seeing just fine. Ye can trust them.”

She turned to him with a grin before fixating her full attention to the television again.

***

“What will we read tonight?” Claire hopped onto the mattress silently, the blankets barely rustling under her weight.

Claire and Jamie’s nightly routine consisted of reading books from his extensive library. Because Claire’s spectral hands could not grasp a novel, Jamie would read the books to her, answering any questions she might have about things she didn’t understand. They had just finished Stephen King’s It the night before, which Claire perceived as equal parts disturbing and ridiculous.

“I dinna ken.”

“Well, it is your decision. I don’t know of any books published within the last century.”

“I ken that. Let me just…” Jamie had wandered over to the small bookshelf. It wasn’t large enough to hold every book in a organized manner, so it was a jumble of mismatched novels with no rhyme or reason. “What about…”

The colorblocked spines caught his eye, demanding attention. Perfect.

“This… is a modern classic.” Jamie pressed hardcover book to his chest reverently.

“That’s what you said about Mr. King, but I felt no appreciation for that work.”

“I think ye’ll like this one, though.” He flipped the book so she could read the title.

“ _Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone_. Quite a mouthful, I’d say.”

“Aye. But, I grew up with this book. It’s special to me. I’d like to share it with ye.”

Claire’s face softened, touched by the simple gesture of sharing and communication. “Well, I’d like for you to share it with me as well.”

Jamie’s face lit up with a grin of true pleasure. They settled next to each other, close enough to feel the other’s breathing. He wished, for this moment, to be able to touch her, share in physical comfort that eluded their relationship. To merely grasp her hand, to brush her hair back… But it simply wasn’t possible, and Jamie swept the thought away.

“ _Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much…_ ”

***

Jamie awoke suddenly, halfway in the grasp of a nightmare he couldn’t remember. The digital numbers of his alarm clock glowed harshly in his face: _2:43 a.m_. Groaning, he lumbered to the front room, intent on getting some work done while sleep evaded him.

It was strangely quiet in the house, no creaks or taps to alert Jamie of Claire’s whereabouts. Perhaps she was visiting her grave. Perhaps she was sleeping. Could she sleep? He wasn’t sure; his knowledge of ghost culture was still fairly slim.

As the laptop booted up, Jamie’s mind began to race, as foggy minds tend to do. However, his thoughts kept revolving around one thing: Claire. He worried for her, which in itself was foolish. She was dead; what else could possibly happen to her?

Perhaps he worried selfishly. If he were to never see her again… She had become a constant in his life. A friend even, as mad as that was.

“Claire?”

Nothing. No sound but the beat of his heart, and the ticking of the mantel clock.

***

Jamie wrote furiously, his fingers setting the keys alight. But his words felt stilted and wrong. The flowery prose just didn’t flow through him this evening.

Sighing, he rested his head on the back of the sofa. Why was he struggling so much?

A ding from his laptop brought him out of his self-pity. Strange. He didn’t press any button…

But, there, in the Google search bar was a name that had become so familiar to him…

_Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Randall_

In the past few weeks, Jamie had become used to strange occurrences in his house. But they were always created by Claire. And Claire was nowhere to be found this moment.

Leaning closer, Jamie pressed the first link.

No. He shouldn’t be doing this. It was an invasion of her privacy. He shut the laptop swiftly, a loud metallic this ringing throughout the room. But he wasn’t quite quick enough. The image of the newspaper headline was blazed into his retinas:

**YOUNG WIFE FOUND DEAD IN HOME: ACCIDENT OR MURDER?**


	6. INTERLUDE 1

It was a different time, then. Although a curious and inherently intelligent child, Claire was sheltered and uneducated in the ways of the world.

After Julia and Henry Beauchamp lost their first child–a boy that only saw the light of one day–they promised themselves that the next child would not face the same fate.

And the next child came, a strong and healthy girl with a head full of hair. She was a light in her parents darkness. The pain of losing a child never leaves, but they found solace within the soft pinkness of the new child. Claire, they called her, as she was as bright and sweet as a spring morning.

And Claire grew, wild and rambunctious as children are wont to be.

But that would not do for Mr. and Mrs. Beauchamp. Such actions led to injuries… Injuries that could take their child from them.

_That’s not very lady-like dear._

_Be careful, love. You don’t want to hurt yourself._

_No, no Claire. Don’t do that._

Such shelteredness led to childish naivety that followed Claire into her adult life. It wasn’t always a terrible thing; she was full of love and curiosity only innocents possess. However, it also led to blinding trust. Because she never saw the bad in the world, she assumed everything and everyone was good.

Of course, the truth wasn’t so lovely.

She was seventeen when she met him, standing in the dooryard of her parents’ house. Tall and slim with dark eyes and sharp cheeks, he was the portrait of a gentleman.

He worked with her father at the local university Claire learned, and as such, he began to spend more and more time at the Beauchamp house. Of course, she rarely saw him. The two men would hide away in her father’s study for hours researching all manner of subjects until Mrs. Beauchamp called them for dinner.

Claire never had a conversation with him. Not privately, anyway. She knew his name, and his position at the university, but any other information came secondhand from her father.

_Did you know he’s a marvelous hunter?_

_He’s traveled to France. Wouldn’t you like to go to France, Claire?_

_He’s writing a book at the moment. I’ve read a bit of it. Interesting stuff._

It took months for them to finally speak one another directly.

“Claire, isn’t it?” He spoke with a musical tenor that warmed her bones.

“Um… yes.”

“I haven’t properly introduced myself to you, and for that, I apologize. Your father likes to keep me occupied. Frank Randall, at your service.”


	7. Chapter 6

**_YOUNG WIFE FOUND DEAD IN HOME: ACCIDENT OR MURDER?_   
**

_May 13, 1897_

_Officers arrived at the scene of a grisly murder mere hours ago. The victim, identified as Claire Randall, seems to have suffered from a head injury that led to her death. Her husband, a professor Frank Randall, could not be reached for further questioning._

_More information to be provided at a later date, but one question remains: Was this an accident, or was this murder?_

***

Jamie stared unseeingly at his screen. With it’s bright light and dramatic title, the article all but persuaded him to read it. And without a second thought, he did. Now, the article’s words were burned into his brain.

_Grisly._

_Head injury._

_Murder._

He couldn’t forget it if he tried. The question was: Should he tell Claire?

The question rang in his mind over and over again until it became a dull moan that lulled him to sleep.

***

“JAMIE!”

The familiar voice, dripping with fear and confusion, jolted Jamie awake. Dread filled his chest, turning his blood to ice. What could frighten a ghost? Sprinting toward the sound of her voice, he found Claire hunched on the kitchen floor, small sobs escaping her trembling body.

“Claire?!” He slid toward her, falling to his knees. His hands hovered in the air above her; he could not touch her ethereal form, but wished to offer her some bodily comfort.

“Jamie!” She gasped, her chest heaving from effort. “I–”

She screamed then, a piercing howl of pain and panic. She clutched her head, pulling her hair away from her scalp. Jamie reached to grab her wrists–to stop her–but his skin was met with the cool mist that was her intangible body.

“Claire! Stop! What’s going on?!”

“My… HEAD!” Her moan shook the windows, and rang in Jamie’s ears. He needed to do something. Anything.

“Mo nighean, can ye get up? Can ye stand? Perhaps if ye made it to the sofa, ye could lie…”

Another yelp, like an animal caught in a trap. “NO!”

That’s when Jamie found himself curled around her, spoon-fashion, cradling her hazy form. An instinct, perhaps, to protect, though there wasn’t much he could do.

“Shhhh, a ghraidh. I’m here. Shhhh…” He slid his fingers through the misty tendrils of her hair. “I’m here…”

***

Claire seemed to have entered a sort of trance. Jamie knew that, as a ghost, sleep evaded her. However, her breathing grew deep and heavy, as if she had settled on the kitchen floor for a nap.

“Claire?”

“Hmm?”

“What happened?”

She rolled to face him, her eyes weary and full of pain. “I don’t know. My head…” She shivered at the memory of pain. “It began to… it felt like nothing I’d ever experienced. Not even when I was alive.”

“Mo nighean donn…”

She smiled weakly. “It’s alright. It’s over now.”

But, Jamie wasn’t so sure. His mind raced back to the article.

_…Suffered from a head injury that led to her death…_

***

The next week passed with worry present in the back of Jamie’s mind. Every glance, every word from Claire bore the weight of the truth that settled in his brain.

_Grisly._

_Head injury._

_Murder._

He couldn’t stop imagining: Where did it happen? In the bedroom? In the kitchen? Did she try to fight the attacker? IF there was even an attacker…

The worst, though, were the images that assaulted his mind: Claire, lifeless and blue, drenched in a puddle of her own blood… It brought on nightmares so real and so vivid that Jamie woke multiple times throughout the night, shaking and gasping for air.

He didn’t tell Claire this, though. He kept this knowledge to himself, though the urge to divulge strengthened everyday. He didn’t want to bear this weight alone.

But, that was selfish of him. What if she didn’t want to know? He couldn’t force this information on her, information that had evaded her mind for a century.

But, didn’t she have the right to now?

This dilemma plagued him for days–should he, or shouldn’t he?–until Claire brought up his unpleasant mood.

“Are you well, Jamie? You haven’t been yourself lately.”

“Just… some things on my mind. That’s all.”

“Would you care to talk about it?”

“I… don’t…. I dinna ken. It’s about… ye, Claire.”

“Me?”

“Aye.” He looked into her eyes, compassionate and kind. Like sunlight through whisky. Could he tell her the truth, the ugly and painful suffering that led her to this fate?

Didn’t she deserve to know?

“Aye,” he repeated. “I think… I think I ken how ye died.”


	8. Chapter 7

“Excuse me?” After moments of silence, these words rang through the house with a bell-like echo that would not fade. **  
**

“I… How ye died… I read an article–”

“Show me.” Jamie had never heard such a harsh demand from Claire. A lady of the past, Jamie supposed her upbringing necessitated a polite and soft-spoken demeanor, which is what she usually displayed out of custom. But, here she was, eyes blazing with determined curiosity

“Are ye sure, Claire?” It was a dumb question, he knew, for there was nothing but certainty written on her face. But he had to be sure. Such things could not be taken back…

“Yes.”

***

Jamie’s fingers flashed across the keyboard, the only sound echoing in the room. Claire had turned silent, introspective in the moments that followed his confession. Had she changed her mind?

“Claire…?”

“Hmmm?”

“Are ye–”

“Yes.”

Unsatisfied with her demeanor, but unwilling to push her further, he continued clicking her name on the in the silver keys.

_Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Randall_

The first hit: shaded blue from previous visits. He wondered how many had clicked this link before him. Had anyone ever searched for her? Was anyone curious about her death?

When we’re forgotten, we become less.

Words from weeks ago, from a lifetime ago.

No. No one has ever looked for her. She was a forgotten one, her life slipping away from the living, like silk on skin.

But, that was before.

“Are ye ready?”

“Yes,” she repeated. A mantra of sorts, Jamie supposed.

The article popped into frame, casting a sepia glow from the screen. He didn’t look, though. No, his focus was only on Claire. He watched her, her eyes flicking across the words. He saw her expression morph, from curiosity to confusion to fury.

Anger transformed her face, altering her into a more beautiful and more terrifying creature. She terrifyingly became exactly what she was: otherworldly, hell-bent. This was the creature that haunted dreams, that created nightmares. She was the monster that creeped along the edges of a movie screen. Except she was real, and frighteningly close.

She screamed, first in rage. Then, in pain. A keening cry spilled from her lungs, expressing unearthly agony. She grasped her hair, pulling roughly at the follicles.

“Claire!”

Translucent blood rushed from her scalp, staining her hands and face. Her eyes widened, horror and pain marking her expression.

She fell, then: limp and still, like death.


	9. Chapter 8

_God, shield my beloved._ **  
**

The words flowed unbidden through Jamie’s mind, though he couldn’t find the lie within the prayer. He collapsed next to Claire’s body, her life’s blood—death’s blood?—pouring from the wound that marred her cloudy complexion.

He was helpless, unable to aid this dear woman in her time of need. He fell into uselessness under waves of sorrow, tracing the lines of her face with his eyes. Beneath the gruesome scene of her death, she really was a lovely creature. Kind and intelligent, with an elegant face that belied her mind. Perhaps in a different lifetime, they could have been…

But, fate did not hold such things for them.

And, through these contemplations, Claire remained as still as the body in her grave.

Jamie had searched for solitude for the longest time, first at Lallybroch and then at his new haunted house. But now, he faced the very thing he wished for, and wanted to take it all back. How would he continue on without her presence?

Tears rolled silently down his face, reaching out for the ghost of the woman he loved.

***

Hours, days, weeks later, dark eyelashes fluttered against cheekbones, and opened. Eyes appeared before him, familiar eyes that were disfigured with pain and hopelessness, leached of the warmth that once captivated him.

“Claire?”

Her lips parted, a tiny moan escaping. “I–”

“Shhh. It’s alright. Rest.”

Her hand reached upward, groping for the wound that pulled her under. But, it was gone. Disappeared, and the blood with it. Like it had never happened. She was whole and well, but the emptiness in her eyes was a reminder enough.

“I was afraid ye were gone.”

She sat up, her eyes fixated on the rivulets of raindrops running down the window. “I’ve been gone for a long time, Jamie.”

***

The house was quiet. Unusually so, for a haunted house. Claire had withdrawn into herself after the incident, her eyes hooded with an unimaginable sorrow. A shadow of a shadow, she was fading.

Jamie had tried coaxing her from the darkness…

_“Claire? Would ye like to start a new book? It might–”_

_“No. Thank you, Jamie.”_

_“Claire? I’m going for a run. Would ye like to meet me at the cemetery?”_

_“No, I’m alright.”_

…To no avail.

He couldn’t let her disappear. He _wouldn’t_  let her disappear. She was slowly becoming the ghost her figure suggested, and Jamie raged against it. He fought to light the flame within her that drew him to her from the start. He beckoned her with knowledge and understanding. Enticing her with peace.

“Claire, I’m going to search for yer murderer. Do ye want to help?”

His heart ignited at her response:

“Absolutely.”


	10. Chapter 9

Within the shadowy recesses of the World Wide Web, Claire Randall was nowhere to be found.

“So, the one article… That’s all there is?”

“Aye. Besides yer birth, death, and marriage record, that’s all I’ve found.”

“Christ!”

The expletive rang like a gunshot through the walls, echoing in Jamie’s ears.

“Claire, I—-“

“No, Jamie. It’s fine. It’s not your fault. It’s… I just thought I might find some inner peace… or something. Perhaps I thought the…” She shivered. “The _episodes_ would stop if we found out. But… Oh, well.”

“Yer to give up that easily?”

Claire began to pace the perimeter of the rug. Jamie feared she would wear a path in the floor if her feet actually touched the ground.

“What else can we do?”

“We havena exhausted all our resources yet! There’s still the library, the archives…”

“You told me everything was on the _Internet.”_ The word sounded sour and unnatural coming from her mouth.

“Most things, aye. But perhaps no everything…”

“What do you suggest then?”

“That I take a wee day trip tomorrow.”

***

Jamie shed his shirt, preparing for an early night in response to his long day ahead. The archives were at least an hour’s drive, and he wouldn’t have Claire’s pleasant company to keep him sane.

He sighed, fumbling with his belt. A long day, indeed.

“Oh! Jamie!” Claire’s voice from behind startled him, his feet lifting off the ground in a surprised jump. “I… I’m so sorry. I didn’t know that… I’m sorry. I’ll just… go…”

He turned to face her, to tell her it was alright. She stood in the doorway, graceful as ever, her body turned to leave. But her her head… Her head was still facing him, eyes firmly latched onto his chest.

He thought to make a joke, to tease her for staring, but the words wouldn’t leave his throat. She had paralyzed him beneath her gaze, a strange combination of innocent wonder and sinful desire.

“I--”

“Claire--”

They spoke simultaneously, voices croaked from dry mouths.

She reached a hand toward him, tentative and slow. The breeze of her touch brushed the hairs on his chest. God, how he wished to truly touch her, feel her against him…

Quicker than a snake’s strike, she recoiled, cradling her hand against her chest.

“I… that was… I don’t what came over me. That was completely inappropriate. I’ll just—“

“Shhhh. Claire, I… Ye dinna have to leave. Stay. Please.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea…” Despite the hesitance in her voice, she made no move to leave the room.

“As ye say.” Still, she didn’t leave.

 _Fuck it._ With that encouragement, Jamie dropped his jeans and they puddled around his feet. He stood before her wearing nothing but his boxer-briefs and an anxious flush.

“Jamie…” Stepping toward him, she reached her hand out, and he closed his eyes. He felt the soft caress of her touch upon his arm. “Jamie, look…” Doing as he was bid, he found her honey eyes incredibly close to his own. He was close enough to kiss her, envelop her…

“Look,” she repeated, eyes darting to where her hand touched him. He followed her gaze, watching as her transparent fingers moved through his bicep. “I can’t touch you. You can’t touch me. I care for you, Jamie. Truly. I just… Some things are impossible.”

“No. I dinna believe that.”

“I’m dead. And you’re not.”

“Claire--”

“I’ll spend the evening in the cemetery. I’ll see you off in the morning. Goodnight, Jamie.”

“Claire!” But she had already disappeared without a glance backward, leaving Jamie bared in more ways than one.

***

Jamie slept fitfully, the complete silence of the house a deafening presence in itself. He dreamt in half images and small motions, never enough to create a full picture. He wished… God, he wished for so much, every hope surrounding the missing shade.

_I wish Claire were here._

_I want Claire to be happy._

_I want Claire_ _alive._

He drifted off with only one word echoing in his mind.

_Claire… Claire… Claire._


	11. Chapter 10

Jamie woke to gray light filtering through his windows. He cursed, the heaviness in his muscles a testament to his lack of sleep. It would be a long day. He dressed quickly, throwing his hair into a tiny knot of the back of his head. God, he really needed a haircut. Looking about as presentable as he could in a T-shirt and jeans, he headed to the sitting room.

Claire was there, sitting primly on the edge of the sofa, eyes distant. He could hear her mind working.

He cleared his throat. “Claire.”

“Oh! Good morning, Jamie. Did you sleep well?”

“Aye,” He lied. “Was yer evening alright?”

“Yes, yes. Just fine.” She was lying too; Jamie could tell. She was true to the core, and her lies stuck out tremendously. But, he didn’t mention it.

“Good.” 

Was this what they had resorted to? Pleasant conversation and one syllable answers? They had lived together for months, but after one night of truths and bare souls, they acted like strangers. It was something Jamie couldn’t handle.

“Claire, I’m s--”

“Jamie. Don’t. I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re all fine.”

They weren’t, but what could he say?

“Okay, well, I’m going to head out.”

“So early?”

“Weel, I’ve got to pick Ian up.”

“Ian? Your brother-in-law? He’s going with you?” Worry and jealousy clouded her eyes.

“Aye. I didna want to go alone. Dinna fash. I told him I was doing research for my latest novel. He willna ask too many questions about that.”

“Oh, umm. Well, good luck.”

“I’ll try my best, Claire. For ye.” Sincerity dripped from his lips, because despite the awkwardness and hurtful truths from the night before, he still cared for her. Deeply.

A small smile crinkled her eyes. Perhaps she still cared for him as well.

“Thank you, Jamie.”

***

“And, what is this book yer writing about? Dead people?” Ian had agreed to accompany Jamie to the archives on one condition: Jamie bought dinner. It was a small price to pay for an extra set of hands and eyes.

“It’s… historical…. fiction.” That wasn’t a full lie. It was historical. Fiction… not so much.

“Sounds boring.” Ian was never one to mince words. Jamie supposed thats why him and Jenny worked so well together. “But, yer my brother. And I’ll help ye.”

“Wow. Thank ye, Ian. Yer support is overwhelming.”

“Oh, hush. Ye ken I love ye and I’m proud of ye and all that shit. Now, come man. Let’s go research dead people.”

***

“Jesus, Jame. Are ye sure this woman actually existed?”

Jamie and Ian had been at the archives for nearly three hours, and luck was apparently not on their side.

“Aye. I saw her headstone. I dinna think they give headstones to imaginary people.”

“Ye’d be surprised at what people do…” Ian mumbled under his breath, flipped through laminated pages in a worn binder.

“Just… keep looking. If we dinna find anything in the next hour, we’ll leave.”

Jamie hated the thought of leaving without any information, but he knew a dead end when he saw one.

_ Randall… Randall… _

_ Alexander Randall… Arthur Randall… Benjamin Randall… _

“Oi, Jamie? Was this woman married? Do ye ken?”

“Aye.”

“Franklin?”

That caught his attention. “Yes. That’s what I read.”

Ian slid an article toward him. “Here’s his obituary… He died exactly a year after her.”

 

_ Franklin Wolverton Randall _

_ June 24, 1859–May 13, 1898 _

 


End file.
